


Breaking the Rules

by Ololon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: Vetinari has broken the unwritten rules. Vimes always thought that he would be the one to do that...





	

Breaking the Rules

 

Vimes sat, waiting – or tried to. It was not a habit that came naturally: sitting, waiting. The legs wanted to walk. To give chase. But this was not a situation that could be resolved by chasing. Only by sitting, and waiting. Patiently. Occasionally, when he couldn't stand it anymore, he would get up and pace, until a pointed look from Igor would send him back to his chair. Occasionally, as he glanced across at the tall pale man lying propped up on cushions in the bed, blue eyes would briefly meet his, before closing again. The Patrician waited far more patiently, suffering his hand to be stitched and head carefully taped in characteristic composure. And Vimes would look away again hurriedly. Once, when he glanced across, having restlessly got to his feet again, the eyes were closed.

            “Don't you fall asleep!” he exclaimed, rudely breaking the silence, “You could have a concussion.” Both Vetinari and the Igor looked at him.

            “Hith Lordthip doeth not have a concuthion,” Igor said, somewhat primly, “Merely a narthsty bump, thir.”

            “There you are, Vimes, merely a nasty bump.” Vetinari repeated, dabbing fastidiously with a handkerchier after Igor's spittle - drenched explanation.

            “That thould do nithely, thir,” Igor added, finishing up a neat row of stitches and packing his kit away.

            “Thank you, Igor. Commander, I believe there is no need for you to stay.” For answer, Vimes drew a chair up and sat down with a heavy thump, crossing his arms pointedly. Damn the man anyway. Vetinari merely lay back against the pillow, a faint smile briefly crossing his face.

            “You have no injuries, thir?” Igor asked Vimes; the second time he had asked.

            “I'm fine,” Vimes said, shortly, then, moderating his temper, “I'll see you back at the Watch House, Igor.”

            “Very good, thir,” Igor replied, and shuffled out, closing the door behind him. Vimes opened his mouth to speak – and shut it again. Vetinari's eyes were completely closed, his breathing slow and deep. Vimes glared balefully at him for a minute or two, refusing to believe it, then gave up and leant back in his chair.

            “You broke the rules. Sir,” he grumbled. There was no reply. The door opened again, softly, and Drumknott came in with a tea tray.

            “Oh,” he said, hesitating in the doorway, “He's asleep.” He didn't sound like he believed it either. “I'll just leave this here then,” putting the tray down on the bedside table.

            “I'll wait 'til he wakes up,” Vimes said, gruffly, “I have some questions I need answered.” Drumknott's gaze travelled between the two of them; the Commander in his chair and the Patrician on the bed.

            “I see,” he said, carefully, and turned to go.

            “Drumknott,” Vimes said, hastily, “What are they...reporting, down there?” Drumknott's gaze was clear-eyed and innocent as a babe's.

            “Why sir, that the Patrician incurred minor injuries during an attempted assassination attempt, fortunately thwarted by the Commander of the Watch, of course.” Vimes stared at him.

            “Is that what _you_ saw?” he demanded.

            “What other explanation could there be? I shall be along later, Commander. Call if you need anything.”

Vimes was reduced to sitting again. He had a mind to just wake the bastard up. The tea sat where it was, getting cold. He didn't want it. He wanted...answers, of course. Just answers. His mind drifted back, only last week, to their regular morning meeting in the Oblong Office. Vetinari had been seated behind his desk. Vimes had been stood in front of it, when he wasn't pacing, furiously. Ranting. Angry again.

            “The man's a con artist!” he had protested, knowing, even as he did so, how futile it was, “He breaks all the rules and you just let him dazzle everybody with his tricks and schemes and shiny smile.”

            “Ah, but the Guild of Merchants has come around to the new tax, has it not?” Vetinari had replied, calmly, “And Mr von Lipwig did not, in point of fact, break the _law._ ”

            “And he gets away with it,” Vimes had continued, ignoring that, “He pulls the wool over everyone's eyes and they congratulate themselves on being so clever.”

            “He is indeed a remarkably talented individual, in certain areas, anyway,” Vetinari agreed.

            “I don't like it,” Vimes growled, “He can't think he can just do anything he likes.”

            “Oh I am certain that he does not think _that_ ,” Vetinari said. He steepled his fingers and leant back in the chair.

            “Are you familiar with the literary works of Penjam, Brestian, or even Goosener?” Vetinari asked him, blindsiding him for a moment.

            “Of course. Well, Brestian at least, and I saw the theatre version of Penjam’s _Indecision_. I _can_ read, sir.”

            “I am reassured to hear it, Vimes. It is always good to know that you read my instructions before disregarding them.” Vimes glared.

            “Well what about them?”

            “There are rules of writing, Vimes. Not just grammar, but style. Yet the greatest of writers break them, quite routinely.”

            “What rot!”

            “’’She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the orgy’” *****  Vimes was silent, although certainly, he could glare quite loudly.

            “Many people will tell you that the rules exist to be broken. And many fall flat on their faces doing just that. The point is to be so expert at the rules that one knows _when_ to break them, and exactly how far, ideally such that _nobody even notices._ ” Well, he _would_ say something – something _political_ like that, Vimes had thought, after he’d left, even more annoyed than when he’d gone in, which, in fairness, often happened after one of his meetings with the Patrician. But also confused. And wondering if, in an odd sort of way, Vetinari _admired_ Lipwig, which somehow really rankled, in a way that he wasn’t prepared to examine too closely.

            No, nobody had noticed, except possibly Drumknott, who was too sensible to acknowledge he had noticed.

            “If you pace much more, Commander, I would be minded to charge you for a replacement carpet.” Vimes spun round. Vetinari was sitting up in bed, eyes quite open. He had poured himself a cup of tea and was sipping it decorously. If that wasn't the gods-blessed limit!

            “What were you _thinking?_ ” he demanded, which had not been, quite, the question he had meant to ask. Unusually, Vetinari did not prevaricate.

            “Let me see...I was thinking: 'That man has a pocket crossbow, if I move this way, and twist my arm just so, then I disarm him before it shoots the Commander through the neck, with minimal injury to all parties involved.'”

            “You got your arm slit open and those infernal brains of yours nearly dashed out on the cobbles!”

            “The slip in our well-known Ankh-Morpork mud, was, admittedly, more dramatic than intended, but lent, I thought, a certain authenticity to proceedings.” Vimes exploded.

            “The city cannot afford to lose you! You can't put yourself in danger like that!”

            “I should think it could ill-afford to lose her Watch Commander, either. Certainly it would be very tedious to have to knock a replacement into shape at such short notice.”

            “You broke the rules!” Vimes almost shouted, ignoring that last jibe. And that was it, wasn't it? _He_ was supposed to protect _Vetinari._ Not the other way around. A deep, angry breath. “ _Why?”_ The question hung in the air, as if spinning between them: that clear blue gaze met his eyes steadily.

            “Rather for the reason anybody does, really.”

            “Which is?”

            “Because I wanted to, and I knew I could get away with it.” Vimes sat down with a thump on the edge of the bed, all the anger draining out of him.

            “That’s not an answer,” he said, wearily, then, hearing the tremor in his voice, feeling the horrible shaky aftermath of that terror, that moment when he’d realised – _too late –_ what was happening, added, “And you shouldn’t start a sentence with ‘because’.” It won him a brief smile, if not a laugh.

            “It is an answer, it is just not the one you want,” Vetinari said, quietly, then added, “Besides, considering the alternatives, I find the outcome perfectly satisfactory, even if you do not.”

            “You just can’t do - that sort of thing,” Vimes insisted, running a hand down his face that – _blast it –_ still shook. A cup of tea materialized in front of him and he took it unthinkingly, swallowed a mouthful, then slammed it down on the saucer again. “What are you doing out of bed? You’re injured!”

            “I have a bruise on my forehead and a slight cut on my hand, not the Hershebian purple fever, Vimes.” It was harder to glare at the man when he was the one standing and you were the one sitting – on his bed, Vimes realised, belatedly – but his legs felt alarmingly wobbly. What was the matter with him? He’d been in far worse situations than this and not had this kind of reaction.

            “I need a smoke,” he muttered, and got up and almost lurched towards the door.

            “Commander – “ Vetinari began.

            “I’ll set a guard detail ‘til we get more information out of the assassin.”

            “He was trying to kill _you_ Commander,” the Patrician pointed out, but the door had already slammed. Vetinari smiled to himself and took another sip of tea. It was only when Vimes had stomped halfway home that it occurred to him that:

  1. The Patrician had saved his life
  2. He hadn’t exactly said anything that resembled ‘Thank you’; and
  3. Sybil would have something to say about that.



Sybil did indeed have something to say about it, several somethings, the third most awful of which was “He does care for you a great deal, you know,” (the second being: “And I know you’re only angry because you care about him,” whilst top place was awarded to: “You should do something about it. And no, I don’t mind.”).

He avoided the Palace successfully for a fortnight, whilst everything churned in his mind. In truth, he largely avoided anything that wasn’t work, at which he could successfully work at unravelling the surprisingly complex connections of his would-be assassin, and the rather sinister plot that lay underneath it. But when he slept, he dreamed, and what he dreamt was that Vetinari had taken a crossbow bolt that had been meant for him, and bled out in his arms, quoting Brestian.

Finally, he compiled a report, and took it to the Patrician himself, late one evening, when the surprisingly hot Spring sun had cooled enough that he wasn’t uncomfortably hot in his armour, and the stink from the river had abated somewhat. Drumknott had gone off-duty; it was nearly eight, and the Patrician was no longer in the Oblong Office.

            “Urgent business,” Vimes growled at the night clerk, waving his bundle of paper at the man, who said nothing, but led him to the Patrician’s own suite of rooms and ushered him in after a brief consultation.

            “Good evening, Commander,” the Patrician said, politely, “It’s a little late to be working, is it not? What about your son?” Vimes looked pointedly at where Vetinari was sitting at the desk in his living room; there was a discarded dinner plate off to one side, but he was clearly, still, working.

            “Put him to bed and came straight over,” Vimes said, shortly, and taking great pleasure in dropping the huge report on the Patrician’s desk.

            “I’m sure your dedication is exemplary, but you needn’t have done,” Vetinari said, but absent-mindedly leafing through the pages already, his eyes swiftly scanning the pages. Vimes came and stood in front of him, quite closely. “What exactly is this…gift, Commander?”

            “It’s a gods-damned mess is what it is,” Vimes said, cheerfully: it was, too, involving the son of an ambassador and a major city financier in a plot to overthrow the government. Vetinari sighed, and leaned back in the chair, pushing the report away, ever so slightly.

            “It must be the warmth,” he said, “It makes people get such hot-headed ideas.”

            “I wouldn’t know sir,” Vimes said, even more cheerfully; Vetinari looked up at him sharply then, realizing, perhaps, that something was off. Vimes, whose heart had been going nineteen to the dozen for the past few minutes, dropped his helmet on the desk with a loud clang, and seized the Patrician by the front of his robes, bodily hauling him up and kissing him with an almost ferocious passion. One of Vetinari’s hands locked about his wrist in a vicelike grip; the other had something extremely sharp pricking beneath his heart. Vimes ignored them both, pulling the man closer, and in the next moment both of those long-fingered hands had reached up to clasp his face and gently – ever so gently – pushed back. Vimes let go, wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake.

            “What are you doing, Commander?” Vetinari murmured, his eyes searching Vimes’ face – for what, Vimes did not know, but there was something surprisingly... _open_...in that look.

“Breaking the rules,” he said, seizing the man again, desperately; but this time, those hands pulled him in closer, tangling in his hair, and Vetinari kissed him back.

 

END.

 

*This is me horrifically altering Jane Austen's  _Emma:_ "She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party," which has double negatives in it.


End file.
